


Good Touch/Bad Touch

by grimm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Dad!Derek, Emotional Baggage, Frottage, M/M, Painfully slow build, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 13:57:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimm/pseuds/grimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a bartender and Derek is a former UFC fighter with three kids and enough emotional baggage to supply a year's worth of drama on General Hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Touch/Bad Touch

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone for welcoming me so kindly to the fandom with my first fic! Go read that one - it's way better than this one.

Saturday nights were Stiles’ least favorite nights of the week. The bar did not get busy; if anything, it got even slower than the rest of the week, and his meager supply of tips dried right up. When he came on shift at eight, there were about ten people ranged about the place, and the music was set too loud. He turned it down a few notches, nodding at Jackson as he clocked out. Stiles sighed; it was going to be another long, boring night.

By eleven, there were only five people in the bar; a group of loud barely-legal kids crammed into a booth. Stiles cleaned, humming along to the music. He looked up at the sound of the door opened and – whoa - blinked at the fine specimen of maleness that had just walked in. This guy was darkly handsome, dressed in a nice suit (at eleven on a Saturday?), his tanned face lined with dark scruff. Stiles watched him sit down at the bar.

“What can I get for you?”

“Scotch, neat.”

“Any preference?”

The man shook his head and Stiles poured him a glass of bottom shelf scotch. He passed the glass to the man, who took it without a word. Stiles considered him again. The strong, silent type wasn’t really his type, as it were. He liked manners. The guy didn’t seem like the type who would tip, but he could try. Stiles nodded toward his suit.

“What’s the special occasion tonight?”

The man looked down at his suit, then up at Stiles, his heavy eyebrows pulling together in a frown. “My wife died five years ago today.”

The pit of his stomach dropped out. If Stiles could, he would have sunk through the floor and right into the depths of Hell. It’d probably be a lot warmer than the look in this guy’s eyes. “Jeeze,” Stiles said, his throat working, “I’m sorry.”

The man took a long pull of his scotch and said, “I’m not.”

Wow. Way to take an awkward moment and make it even more awkward. Thank god one of the kids from the booth came over at that moment, and Stiles turned away from the man with great relief, busying himself with pouring a round of Blue Moon. After that, he took a load of dishes into the kitchen and shoved them into the dishwasher. When he came back into the bar, he was glad to see Scott sitting in the seat closest to the kitchen door.

“Oh my god, thank you for being here,” Stiles groaned, leaning against the counter. “I just made the biggest fool of myself.”

“Huh?” Scott’s big brown eyes looked at him in concern and Stiles sighed.

“That dude at the end of the bar,” he hissed. “I asked him why he was drinking and he said his _wife_ died.”

“Well, how were you supposed to know?”

“I—” Stiles breathed out. “Okay.” He glanced over at the man; his glass was sitting in front of him, empty. Stiles pulled a bottle of eighteen-year Glenfiddich from the shelf, poured a generous amount into a fresh glass, and placed it in front of the man. He frowned again, his pale eyes settling onto Stiles’ face.

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“It’s on the house,” Stiles told him. “Sorry for my big mouth.”

The corner of the man’s mouth quirked upward and he said, “Thanks.” Stiles nodded, thinking that maybe this guy wasn’t so bad after all.

Stiles spent the next half hour chatting with Scott, but he looked up when the man left, raising a hand in farewell. Stiles nodded back, and when he went over to wipe down the counter, was startled to find he’d been left a $50 tip. “Do you see this?” he said to Scott, waving the bill in the air.

“I guess he wasn’t offended,” Scott offered, drinking his Long Trail. “Do you know who that was?”

“No,” Stiles said, startled. “Do you?”

Scott nodded. “His name’s Derek Hale. He used to be a really good UFC fighter.”

Stiles’ head swiveled back toward where the man had been sitting, even though there was nothing to see now. “Really? I mean, he kind of looked like an asshole, but, uh, huh.” Scott knew about that kind of thing, though. Sports had never really been Stiles’ strong point.

“He did leave you a fifty dollar tip,” Scott pointed out.

“That’s true,” Stiles admitted. “Huh.”

Stiles honestly didn’t expect to see the man – Derek, Scott had said? – again. The bar, as evidenced by the lack of customers, wasn’t really a favorite among the locals. It was dirty, despite the amount of cleaning Stiles tried to get done every shift, and the owner didn’t really care enough about it to put any work into fixing things that broke. Stiles didn’t particularly like working there, but he was still a novice bartender, and this was the only place in town he’d been able to find a job.

So it came as a surprise to him a few weeks later when Derek Hale came through the front door around six on a Wednesday evening. Stiles was good at faces, but he didn’t think he’d forget Derek’s soon. The bar was a little more crowded that evening; Wednesdays were trivia nights and Jackson was up on the little stage at the end of the room, reading off questions.

Derek sat down at the bar and caught Stiles’ eyes. Stiles sidled over, grinning. “Hey, welcome back. Scotch again?”

Derek quirked an eyebrow. “Good memory, but no. Shock Top’s fine.”

Stiles nodded and poured him a glass. “Thanks for that generous tip, by the way. I actually bought real food that week.”

Derek shrugged, though he looked faintly pleased. “You made a shitty day marginally better.”

Stiles grinned, pleased.

Derek started coming in more often after that. No more than two times a week, usually in the early evening, and he never had more than one drink. They were on first-name basis; Stiles had to pretend like he didn’t already know Derek’s name when he introduced himself. He got to know the former fighter. Not well, because he wasn’t very forthcoming, but Stiles managed to learn that Derek had just relocated from Sacramento, and that he had kids, which honestly startled Stiles a little. Derek wasn’t that old, maybe late twenties, not much older than himself. He never talked about his dead wife (understandable, maybe) or even mentioned his old days as a fighter, something which, now that Stiles knew to look, he could see. He could see the muscles in his broad shoulders, the strength in his hands, the scars on his knuckles. There was a scar on his chin, cutting through his dark scruff, like he’d been punched in the jaw hard enough to split the skin. Stiles wanted to press his lips to it.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to Derek. Who wouldn’t be? The man looked like a Roman god. Stiles hadn’t managed to get a full smile out of him yet, but even the quirking corners of his mouth were enough to send shivers down his spine. He would never admit it to anyone, but after Scott told him who Derek was, Stiles Googled him, finding pages upon pages of pictures of Derek as a young man, serious and hateful and covered in sweat. They called him Le Loup. The Wolf.

Stiles watched videos of him in the ring, punching out opponents with a startling grace and ease. There was less about his retirement. He found one old article about his wife’s death – accidental heroin overdose – and Derek’s immediate retirement. He found a picture of him at the funeral, looking inappropriately handsome in a black suit, holding the hand of a little dark-skinned boy with one hand, and a baby in the other arm. A girl who looked a lot like him stood next to Derek, another baby in her arms.

The photo seemed too personal. Stiles closed the window, feeling like he’d gone too far, but then he opened a new one to search for photos of Derek’s wife. It wasn’t like he was jealous; she was dead, after all.

Stiles winced after that thought. Okay, he was a terrible person, but he could come to terms with that. And anyway, she looked like a bitch. Super hot, but hot in that nasty way the preppy girls in high school were. Like she’d compliment your shoes and then talk about how ugly you were behind your back. Stiles closed his laptop. God, he was just as bad. He wandered out into the living room, where his roommate Lydia sat on the couch, watching some bridal reality show and painting her nails. He flopped down next to her, earning himself a dark look when his movement sent her brush streaking across her fingers.

“Is it bad to think bad thoughts about dead people you’ve never met?” he asked idly. He didn’t spend a lot of time looking in Derek’s eyes, but when he did, he could see a deep unhappiness in them, even when he did his half-smile thing.

“Dead people like who?” Lydia asked, scrubbing at her skin with nail polish remover.

“I don’t know,” Stiles sighed, unwilling to admit anything to Lydia. She had this tendency of picking at things like an old scab, never leaving them alone until she was satisfied. If she suspected he had a crush on someone, she would not leave him be, and this wasn’t something he was ready to admit yet.

“Welllll?” Lydia asked, rolling out the syllables. “Are you thinking about, like, Mother Teresa or Stalin?”

“I’m glad you didn’t say Hitler, because this conversation would be over,” Stiles replied, watching some lady on screen scream because she couldn’t fit into her wedding dress. “Hey, do you really like watching this stuff?”

Lydia snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Focus, Stilinski,” she said brightly. “Who are we talking about?”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles said, pushing her hand out of his eyes. “Let’s say there’s someone I know, and they have a dead…sister…and I was looking at pictures at her and thinking about how she really looked like a bitch.”

Lydia gave him a long look, then turned back to her nails. “You are the most boring person, sometimes.”

“Hey!” Stiles protested. “Come on, Lydia! Am I a bad person?”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “No. If you said that to your friend’s face, maybe.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, and relaxed into the couch cushions. Lydia pulled his legs onto her lap and began painting his toenails. He didn’t protest.

Stiles met Lydia in the third grade as beautiful, charming redhead with a gap between her teeth. He fell in love with her the moment he saw her, which only intensified as she grew older and more beautiful, the gap between her teeth disappearing with careful orthodontic work. (He missed that gap, honestly.) Stiles grew from a cute kid to an awkward teenager, then to an awkward young man, stupidly tall and gangly, freckled with moles and a weird birthmark on his lower back that kind of looked like an elephant. Lydia stayed beautiful, out of his reach, and it was only after he realized he liked guys – or at least, there were guys out there that he liked more than Lydia – that she actually started talking to him (because that was the way his life worked, of course). He didn’t mind, though. He grew to know her well enough to know that they never would have worked as a couple, but made an excellent set of best friends. Some days he liked her better than Scott, who was astoundingly dumb sometimes.

Stiles woke up later with cold feet, bright pink toenails, and Lydia half collapsed against him. He had to smile. Life wasn’t that bad, sometimes, even if he was lonely as hell.

-

Life was slow at the bar. Really, the only highlights of his day were went Scott or Derek came in. Otherwise, it was just him and Jackson behind the bar most of the time, dicking around, pranking each other. After Stiles changed the photo of every contact in Jackson’s phone to a picture of himself wearing a pretty rad Tom Selleck moustache, Jackson got him back good with a cup of glitter balanced above the kitchen door. He asked, innocently enough, for the tray of glasses that had just gone through the dishwasher and when Stiles pulled open the kitchen door, he found himself immersed in a snow globe of multi-colored glitter fine as sand.

“Jackson!” he howled, spitting out glitter as the folks gathered at the bar laughed. Jackson gave him a cheeky grin, raising his phone to snap a picture of Stiles.

“What’s that, Stilinski? I can’t hear you over how _fabulous_ you are.”

“I’m gonna – augh, it’s in my eye!”

Despite his best efforts, he was still covered in glitter when Derek came in a few hours later, after things had quieted down and Jackson had gone home. Derek quirked up an eyebrow as Stiles poured him his usual pint of Shock Top.

“Why are you so sparkly tonight?”

Stiles put on his best devil-may-care smile. “Oh, you know,” he said, waving expressively. “I was walking to work and I was thinking to myself, ‘You know what you need to spice up your style, Stiles? Glitter.’ And luckily for me, I just happened to be passing a craft store, and—”

“Jackson got you.” Derek’s smirk almost made up for the glitter bomb. Almost.

Stiles deflated. “How’d you know?”

“He told me about the pictures,” Derek replied. “He said you looked like an 80s porn star.”

Stiles cackled with pleased laughter. “Oh my gaaaawd, that’s awesome.” He stopped laughing to fix Derek with a squint. “When did he tell you that? Did you come in here when I wasn’t working? Oh my god, are you seeing other bartenders?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Keep it in your pants, son. I left my wallet here the other night and Jackson called to let me know he’d found it.”

“Ah.” Stiles still cast him a suspicious look. “Did he tell you about the glitter plan? Because if he did, and you didn’t warn me, I don’t think we can be bar buddies any more. Line in the sand, dude.”

“I had no idea,” Derek replied solemnly. “Cross my heart.”

Stiles relaxed. “All right, then.”

He really liked that they were friendly enough to joke. At first, he hadn’t thought that there was a funny bone in Derek’s body, but it turned out there was, however dry it might be. Stiles was slowly learning that Derek’s little mouth quirks were as good as outright laughter, and he treasured any time he could make it happen.

It was frustrating, though. He wanted to know Derek, know him intimately, to feel his skin, taste his sweat. He wanted to be with Derek, but even more than that, he _liked_ Derek. He didn’t just want to hook up; he wanted to cook dinner together, hang wallpaper – whatever it was domestic partners did.

Stiles asked Derek one night what he did for work, and Derek told him he was a claims adjuster for a small insurance company. When Stiles asked him if he liked his job, Derek shrugged and, with an awed sort of look, said, “I like my coworkers, and they like me.” Stiles got the feeling that not a lot of people liked Derek, which maybe wasn’t that surprising. He remembered the first time he’d met Derek, and he hadn’t been overly friendly. But he knew him now, kind of, and he wanted to tell him that he liked him, put that same awed look on his face.

How could he, though? He didn’t know enough about Derek to know if their banter across the bar was friendship or affection. He’d thought, many times, about asking Derek to go to the movies or to dinner or something, but that sounded like a date (which - spoiler alert - it was), too easy to reject. Too easy to make things weird.

All of Stiles’ feelings – and they were, like everything Stiles put his mind to, _intense_ – made things a lot more awkward when he ran into Derek for the first time outside the bar, at the grocery store. He didn’t know why it surprised him so much; he nearly dropped his basket. It wasn’t like Beacon Hills was a huge town, because it wasn’t, so it made sense he’d seen people he knew at the grocery store, right? He’d seen Danny out in the parking lot, on his phone, probably arguing with Jackson about something. So why did it shock him so much to see Derek standing in front of the eggs with a cart full of groceries and…Stiles’ eyes widened slightly. A little girl with golden curls, sitting at the front of the car, her knees pulled to her chest.

It was weird. It was definitely weird. Stiles realized that, despite seeing Derek a couple of times of week at the bar, he hadn’t really put it together that the guy actually had a life. Like, Derek had mentioned kids, but Stiles hadn’t been able to imagine him actually having them, liking them. He watched Derek bend over so the girl could talk to him, waving her arms around excitedly, and it almost hurt to see Derek smile. He really smiled, like with actual teeth and everything, not just the stupid little mouth quirk thing that Stiles had been working on so proudly. And to think, he’d been so proud to think he knew what the man was thinking.

Stiles took a deep breath. He was _not_ going to get jealous of a little girl. Obviously Derek would be a lot closer to his daughter than some sweaty bartender he’d met like three months ago. Obviously. And he—

“Stiles?”

Stiles jerked out of his daze. Derek stood a few feet away, hands resting on the grocery cart in front of him. The little girl sitting in the cart stared at him.

“Oh.” For the first time in his life, Stiles’ mind went blank. He blinked several times, then gave a wave so stiff he felt like a robot. “Hey. Hey there. Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

“Me?” Stiles hefted his basket. “Oh, you know.” All of his stories start with this. “I’m working on a rocket ship and this is the place to find parts, right? I mean, that makes sense right?” It didn’t, he knew, didn’t even make funny nonsense like all of his other stupid stories. He couldn’t think right with that little girl staring at him. She hadn’t even blinked.

Derek raised an eyebrow and looked into his basket. “You’re building a rocket ship with beer and Poptarts?”

“Well,” Stiles said defensively, “I haven’t gone down the chip aisle yet. All the insulation is made from Cheetos, you know.”

“Makes sense.” Derek’s mouth did the quirky thing, but Stiles wasn’t proud of it any more. He nods his head toward the girl in the cart. “This is Erica. Erica, this is…my friend, Stiles.”

Stiles heard the hesitation in his voice, and it kind of hurt. Erica give him another stare before turning to Derek and saying, in the loudest stage whisper ever, “He’s weird, Dad.”

“Manners,” Derek replied mildly. Stiles shifted uneasily. This domestic side of Derek was kind of freaking him out. Maybe he didn’t want the dishwashing and coffee-drinking part of the relationship after all.

“Well,” Stiles said uncomfortably, taking a step backward. “It was nice seeing you. I’ve got to—”

“Are you working tonight?”

Stiles blinked. Derek watched him expectantly. “Uh,” Stiles said, looking around nervously. “No. No, tonight’s my night off.”

“All right,” Derek said. “You’re coming to our house for dinner.”

“What?” Stiles yelped. “Oh wait, no, dude, you don’t have to do that, really.”

“I know,” Derek replied, frowning slightly, “but I’m not letting you eat Poptarts and beer for dinner. Put your shi—crap back. Except the beer.”

Stiles gaped at him. “Derek, I can’t—”

“Do you have other plans?”

Stiles bit his lip. He’d kind of told Lydia that he would watch The Notebook with her, but it wasn’t like they had never watched it before. He could remember at least two occurrences in the past month. And really, why was he putting up such a fuss? This was what he wanted, right? Well, pretty much. His eyes drifted to the little girl sitting in the cart. She made a face at him. Lydia would understand. “Okay,” he accepted, rather ungraciously. “Thanks.”

Derek nodded. “Put your beer in the cart and meet us in line. Did you drive?”

Stiles shook his head. “Walked.”

“I’ll give you a ride home later.”

That was how Stiles found himself in Derek’s nice car, being driven to a house somewhere in the suburbs. Derek didn’t speak much, talking mostly to answer Erica’s constant questions with surprisingly patient mostly one-word answers. Stiles slipped his phone out of his pocket and tried to text Lydia as stealthily as possible.

_can we do a rain date for the notebook? i just got picked up by a handsome, almost stranger at the grocery store and now i'm being driven to his house for dinner._

Lydia text back almost immediately.

_Then don’t be rude and stop texting me. Don’t get raped. Tell me everything later. xx_

She texted him again a second later.

_Last thing: you have to watch The Vow with me to make up for this._

Stiles tried not to groan. Channing Tatum was the _worst_. Still, he had to smile as he put his phone back in his pocket. Lydia was the best, really.

Derek’s massive house sat a few hundred yards back from the house. Stiles gaped up at it as he climbed out of the car, accepting the grocery bags Derek thrust at him without complaint. “This place is _huge_ ,” he said, following Derek and Erica up to the front door. “And _really_ nice,” he added, once they’d stepped inside. The front door opened into the living room, which was open to the second story. It was light and airy inside, tastefully decorated.

“Thanks,” Derek said. “My sister – _shoes_ , Erica – is an interior designer. She did most of the decorating. You can kick your shoes over there,” he added, nodding behind the door, where a boot tray held an impressive collection of children’s and adults’ shoes. “This place half burned down a few years back, and the rich old assh—dude who owned it wanted to know if he could tear it down for tax purposes. I offered to buy it instead. Took some work to get it back into shape, but it’s home now. Here.”

Stiles followed Derek through the living room and into a spacious kitchen. One wall was all windows, letting in the red light of the setting sun. Derek set his grocery bags down on the counter and Stiles followed suit.

“You can sit,” Derek said, gesturing to the counter, where there were a few bar stools lined up. Stiles sat and Derek reached for the six-pack of beer, twisting a bottle open and sliding it over to him. “You’re very quiet tonight. Unusual, for you.”

Truth. Stiles felt nervous, and he didn’t know why. Was it the kids? Was he anxious to make a good impression? He _did_ want the night to go well. Stiles forced a smile. “Just taking everything in. I’m not being paid to be chatty now. Which, by the way,” he tilted his beer to Derek, “looks like the roles have been reversed. Time for you to chat me up and for me to be surly.”

Some of the good cheer faded from Derek’s face. “I’m not surly.”

“Well, you’re not exactly Mr. Charisma,” Stiles replied, taking a sip of his beer. Derek did not look pleased. Stiles shifted in his chair, wondering why his brain made him say these things. This evening was definitely bombing. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I’ll just go.”

“I drove you here,” Derek reminded him curtly, before he was half off the stool. “Just shut up while I make dinner.”

Stiles nodded miserably, watching Derek unpack the groceries and move around the kitchen, his movements sure and precise. Just like the way he moved in his fights. Stiles had looked around when they came into the house, curious if Derek had any trophies or curios from his days as a fighter, but all he’d seen were photos.

“Um,” Stiles tried, while Derek washed vegetables in the sink. Derek glanced over at him, and okay, yeah, that was more of a glare than a glance, but Stiles tried anyway. “Can I help you with anything?”

Derek glared at him for a moment longer before turning, procuring a chopping board from under a cabinet, then shoving the chopping board, a large knife, and a pile of veggies in his direction. “You sure you want me to have this?” Stiles joked, lifting the knife.

“You work in a kitchen,” Derek growled, slamming a packet of chicken on the counter. “I figure you can handle yourself.”

“Bar,” Stiles reminded him, but to be fair, he’d chopped up enough lemons to have some semblance of skill with a knife, and had no problems with the vegetables.

As he and Derek worked in silence, there came the sound of the front door opening, and at least two pairs of feet entering the house. Derek’s head snapped toward the noise and he barked, “Kitchen!”

A moment later, two boys came into the kitchen. First was a small boy with dark curls, probably around the same age as Erica. He’d been smiling when he came into the kitchen, but the smile slipped off his face when he saw Stiles at the counter. He stopped walking, backing into the legs of the second boy, a tall, broad-shouldered teen with deep chocolate skin. Both boys looked at Stiles warily, and he stared back, not sure what to do with himself.

“This is Stiles,” Derek said shortly. No explanation this time, Stiles noted. That hurt more than the pause at the grocery store had. “How was practice?”

Stiles noted the little boy was wearing a mesh jersey with the words _B. H. LAX_ screen printed on it. The teen wore a sweatshirt with the same words printed over the heart, with _Assistant Coach_ stitched in below. The little boy looked as though he wanted to say something, but the fearful looks he kept casting in Stiles’ direction spoke volumes for his shyness. Derek lifted an eyebrow.

“Tell Derek what you did,” the older boy said, nudging the smaller boy with his knee.

“Um,” the little boy said, casting one last worried glance at Stiles before sidling past him and over to Derek. Stiles couldn’t see him, only the top of his curls over the counter, but he heard his small voice float up to Derek. “I got two goals. Coach said I did good.”

“You _did_ do good,” Derek affirmed, no anger in his voice now. He put his hand on the boy’s curls. “You’re covered in dirt though. Go take a shower. You too,” he said to the taller boy. “Dinner’s in an hour.”

The boys nodded and disappeared. Stiles leaned forward. “Are those your other kids?”

Derek rolled his eyes, rubbing herbs into the chicken. “No, they just show up in my house sometimes.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Stiles huffed, offended. “I meant, is that all? Are any more kids going to pop out of the woodwork?”

“That’s it,” Derek confirmed, sliding the chicken into the oven and setting a timer. “Isaac is Erica’s twin. They’re five. Boyd’s the older one; he’s fifteen.”

“Is…” Stiles paused, not wanting to offend Derek, but Derek seemed to know what he was going to ask, because he said, “Is Boyd mine? How old do you think I am?”

Stiles laughed. “No, I mean – obviously—”

“Obviously he’s not my son,” Derek finished for him. He looked like he’d had this conversation many, many times. He pulled the pile of chopped vegetables away from Stiles and threw it into a pan. “Not biologically. I adopted him when I married Kate.”

It was the first time Stiles had heard him say his dead wife’s name, and he said it quickly, like a curse, like it was bitter on his tongue. He cleared his throat. “Um. Where’s _his_ father?”

“Federal prison somewhere in the Midwest for drug trafficking,” Derek replied. “They’ve never met, and it’s going to stay that way.”

“Oh.” Stiles didn’t have anything else to say to that. Derek was being oddly open with him, despite his apparent irritation. He didn’t want to push Derek’s trust any more by asking invasive questions. He wasn’t even sure that he liked what he was learning tonight.

Further thought was forestalled by the arrival of Erica, clambering onto the bar stool next to Stiles. She’d changed her clothes, dressed in a little dress with frilly edges, and a red hooded cape. The hood was pulled up around her head, blond curls peeping around the edges.

“I’m Red Riding Hood,” she told Stiles proudly. “Dad’s the wolf.”

“Oh?” Stiles said again. The wolf. Derek’s old nickname. He glanced over at Derek, wondering if he’d say anything, but Derek was at the sink, rinsing off the chopping board and not paying them any mind. “Aren’t you afraid he’s going to eat you up?”

Erica giggled. “He can’t do that; he’s my _dad_.”

“So you’re the wolf?” Stiles asked Derek as he turned away from the sink.

Derek paused before replying, “Once upon a time.”

Vague, Stiles noted, but technically the truth. Interesting.

Dinner was an awkward affair. Stiles wasn’t sure when to talk. The two boys were mostly silent, though while Boyd seemed stoic and disinclined to talk anyway, Isaac looked nervous. He kept shooting Stiles semi-fearful, semi-nervous glances when he thought Stiles wasn’t looking. Erica did most of the talking, swinging her head back and forth between Derek and Stiles, asking question after question until Derek limited her to one question per ten mouthfuls of food.

After dinner, Stiles attempted to help with dishes, but Derek pushed another beer into his hand and forced him to go sit in the living room while he roped the rest of his family into cleaning up. Stiles could hear him from the living room, commanding the entire operation in an increasingly exasperated voice.

“Erica, stop sneaking potatoes; you’ve had enough. Isaac, the soap is for cleaning dishes, not making a beard with. Boyd, the _medium_ container, I told you! Oh my _god_.”

Stiles smiled into his beer, glad he wasn’t one of Derek’s children. They came trooping out of the kitchen ten minutes later. Isaac’s shirt had a damp patch spreading down the front, like he’d been wearing a soap foam beard that had melted away. Boyd slipped away upstairs, but Erica plunked herself down next to Stiles, beaming all over her small face.

“Okay,” Derek said to Stiles. “I can bring you home now, or if you want to hang out for a little while, these guys get to watch an hour of TV before turning in for the night.”

“I can wait,” Stiles said, swallowing a grin. “That’s fine.” This earned him a mouth quirk from Derek, and he wondered if that meant Derek wasn’t mad at him any more. If so, he was fine with that.

“You may regret this,” Derek said, turning on the television and handing the remote to Isaac. “They – Erica, you chose last night, settle down – choose some strange shows, sometimes.”

 _“Dad,”_ Isaac said, aghast.

“Don’t mind me,” Derek said absently, lifting Isaac over the back of the couch and setting him down before lightly leaping over and settling beside his son. Stiles tried not to watch the way his muscles moved as he jumped. That was a dangerous path to walk down. “Watch what you want.”

Derek was right; they ended up watching an hour of some strange, highly-saturated cartoon movie. Stiles watched it with his head on his hand, not really seeing it. He was highly aware of Erica next to him; she had snuggled up against his side. She wasn’t a bother; her warmth was a little comforting, and he thought maybe it was time he got a cat or something. He didn’t really notice when Derek turned off the television, but he heard Isaac’s, “Aw, c’mon, Dad!”

“One hour,” Derek replied. “C’mon.” He grabbed Isaac by the ankles, lifting him upside down.

“Noooo,” Isaac howled half-heartedly, giggling as his t-shirt fell down over his face.

“Can you get Erica?” Derek asked Stiles, nodding toward his daughter, who had fallen asleep pressed between Stiles and the couch cushion. “I promise I’ll let you go after this.”

“No worries,” Stiles said, standing up and gently scooping Erica’s light body to his chest. He followed Derek up the stairs to the second floor, where he deposited Isaac on the floor and told him to brush his teeth. He turned to take Erica from Stiles, Derek’s fingers brushing against his elbows and sending electric shocks sparking over his skin. Helping him with the kids earned Stiles a true smile from Derek, swelling his heart so large it hurt.

Stiles bit his lip and hung around awkwardly in the hallway as Derek made sure his children got into their pajamas, brushed their teeth, and were tucked into bed. Back downstairs fifteen minutes later, Derek leaned against the kitchen counter and said, “Thanks for helping out.”

“Not a problem,” Stiles replied, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. “It must get tiring sometimes.”

“Sure,” Derek agreed. They stood in awkward silence for a few moments. “Well…I guess I should get you home, then.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to hear. An invitation to the bedroom? Foolish. “Sure. Thanks.”

The drive to Stiles’ apartment was quiet. Stiles didn’t like the way that he’d been struck dumb, but Derek probably appreciate his lack of babbling. Still, there was something he needed to say.

“Sorry about earlier,” Stiles said quietly, keeping his face forward, watching Derek from the corner of his eye. “For being a dick. I was trying to joke, and I—You’re not surly. You’re a good person.”

Derek was silent for a long time, and Stiles began to think he was ignoring him when he spoke. “You’re not wrong,” he said evenly. His voice was slow, thoughtful, like he was thinking very hard about what he was saying. “I don’t know…how to deal with people. Never have.”

“You don’t have to be,” Stiles said in a rush. “I know you now, kind of, and I know you’re not that person. Maybe you’re a little gruff, but if people can’t take the time to see past that, then they’re not worth your time.”

Derek snorted. “That’s very high school guidance counselor of you.”

Stiles shrugged.

There was a long silence, and then Derek said, “Thanks.”

When Derek pulled up in front of Stiles’ apartment building, there was an awkward moment when Stiles tried to unbuckle his seatbelt in the dark and Derek leaned forward, like maybe he was going to kiss him. But all he did was reach above their heads and turn on the interior light so Stiles could see. “Well, thanks again for dinner,” Stiles said uncomfortably, and almost pitched forward onto the curb in his haste to exit the car.

“Any time,” Derek said, and drove off into the night.

The apartment was dark. Lydia must have gone out after he’d canceled their plans on her. That was fine with him. He went into his room and sat at his desk, tapping his toes on the floor, having an argument with himself in his head. One side won, and he flipped open his laptop. He found one of the old videos of Derek fighting and turned the sound off. He watched Derek move, his tanned skin shining in the harsh lights above the ring. He watched the way his muscles pulled and stretched, slipping a hand into his pants and jacking off to the sight of Derek beating another man to the ground. The video zoomed in on Derek’s face at the end and Stiles came at the way Derek’s lip pulled above his teeth in a sneer.

“Fuck,” he said very quietly, and cleaned himself up before going to bed.

-

Derek came in the next night. Stiles had been a little worried that he might avoid the bar for a while, like maybe their conversation in the car had gotten too personal. But Derek came in and sat down at the bar and, because it was trivia night, turned to Stiles and said determinedly, “I’m going to win this.”

“With a team of just you?” Stiles asked, laughing.

“Sure,” Derek said, taking an answer sheet off the bar and turning so he could hear Jackson list off the questions.

Derek didn’t win – he came in third place, which was surprising. He didn’t win a prize, but Stiles gave him a free beer anyway.

Stiles left work that night feeling light. He should have paid more attention to what he was doing; his walk home took him through a sketchy neighborhood, and he’d been mugged twice before. Tonight made a third time, and it went very much like the first two times. Someone shoved him from behind and said, “Give me your money, fucker.”

Being an old pro at this, Stiles took out his wallet without argument. The first time he’d been mugged, he’d mouthed off and ended up with a broken nose for his sass. It was for this reason that he only kept five to ten dollars in his wallet, along with one of those fake credit cards companies were always sending to the house, trying to get him to sign up. He kept the tips he’d earned that night, along with his real debit card, tucked into the elastic of his boxers. Stiles wasn’t stupid.

He gave his wallet to the tall kid who’d pushed him down and the kid made a noise of disgust. “Weak, son. That’s all you’ve got?”

“That’s it,” Stiles said quietly, keeping his eyes averted from the kid’s face.

“Not even worth my time,” snarled the kid. He swung a fist at Stiles, who was too slow to dodge, and caught him across the face, right below his eye. Stiles went staggering back into a streetlamp, his head hitting the metal with a ringing noise that echoed up the quiet street. The kid threw the wallet back at him and took off before anyone came to investigate the noise, not that anyone did – people kept to themselves in this part of town.

Stiles sagged against the pole for a few minutes, trying to clear the ringing in his head. He picked up his wallet eventually and staggered home, a headache roaring in his ears. Lydia gasped when she saw him in the morning and made him a bag of ice to hold against his cheek, which had blossomed into a stunning purple and green bruise.

Everyone at work that night asked him about his face, but Stiles laughed it off, telling people he’d tripping going down some stairs and smacked his face against the pavement. Clumsy ol’ Stiles. He only told Scott the truth. His best friend winced.

“Why don’t you drive? Obviously it’s not safe out there for you.”

“Parking’s too expensive,” Stiles shrugged. “If you can even find a spot, that is. I’ve got to save my money to eat, Scott.”

When Derek came in he noticed, like Stiles had been afraid he would.

“Oh, hey,” Stiles said when Derek took a seat at the bar. “What’s up—”

Derek leaned forward and grabbed him by the chin, pulling him forward. He looked furious. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I fell,” Stiles began, but Derek shook his head.

“Don’t lie to me. I know a punch when I see one. Who hit you?”

Stiles jerked backward, freeing his face from Derek’s grip. The other people at the bar were staring. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I got mugged, no big deal.”

“No big—” Derek cut himself off, looking as though he wanted to explode. “Stiles.”

“What? There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Huh?”

“Give me your phone,” Derek repeated. Bewildered, Stiles fished his phone out of his pocket and handed it to Derek. Derek punched in a number and handed it back to Stiles. “There, now you have my number. _Call me_ if you need a ride home at night.”

Stiles tried to laugh. “Derek, I work six nights a week. I’m not going to call you every night. I’ll be fine.”

“Call me,” Derek insisted.

He was waiting for Stiles when he left the bar at two in the morning, parked on the street outside, leaning against his car. Stiles stopped walking at the sight of him.

“Derek,” he said, feeling almost angry. “Come on. I told you I didn’t need a ride. I’ll be fine.”

“You got punched in the face, Stiles,” Derek replied. “Do you want that to happen again?”

Stiles gave a frustrated sigh. “No, but you have a job, don’t you? You can’t be up at two in the morning driving me home every night.”

“I’d rather lose sleep giving you a ride than lose sleep at home thinking you might get killed,” Derek snapped.

Stiles head came up sharply. “You’d lose sleep over…me?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Just get in the car.”

Stiles hesitated but…well, he was here already. Might as well. “What about the kids?” he asked, climbing into the passenger’s seat.

“Asleep,” Derek replied, “but Boyd knows I’m out here.”

“Oh yeah? And what does he think of that?”

Derek went quiet. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “He keeps a lot to himself.”

“Um,” Stiles said, desperately wanting to ask, but knowing this was going to throw him into deep water he couldn’t escape from. “Can I ask…your wife? What happened?” He already knew, of course, from looking it up earlier, but he wanted to hear what Derek would say about her, _if_ he said anything about her at all.

To Stiles’ surprise, Derek answered almost immediately. “Kate,” he said, through gritted teeth, “killed herself. Heroin overdose. Accidentally, or maybe on purpose. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. All I know is that she abandoned her kids, ruined their lives and mine, and I’ll never forgive her for that.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, and that was all he could say. He looked out the window, at the buildings flashing past. “Uh, don’t you think you’re going a little fast?”

“Huh?” Derek said in the same moment sirens came on behind them. “Shit.”

Stiles twisted in his seat as Derek pulled to the curb, squinting at the cop car behind them. “Oh. Oh no.”

“What is it?” Derek snapped, turning off the engine and placing the keys on the dashboard.

“Don’t freak out, okay?” Stiles told him. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Derek agreed. “Why?”

The cop knocked on Derek’s window and he rolled it down. “Evening,” the cop said as he leaned down. “Do you— _Stiles_?”

Derek’s head whipped round to look at Stiles, who mustered up a ragged smile. “Heyyyy, Dad.” Derek’s eyes went wide.

Stiles’ father, Sheriff Stilinski, pointed his flashlight in Stiles’ face and his mouth became a grim line when he saw the bruise on Stiles’ cheek. “What happened to you? Who hit you?” he barked. He swung the light at Derek. “Was it him? Get out of the car!”

Stiles scrambled out of the car before Derek could even get the door open. “Dad, Dad,” he said, waving his arms. “Chill out! Derek didn’t do this; he’s just giving me a ride home!”

The sheriff glared at Derek, then Stiles. “So what happened?”

Stiles sighed. “I got mugged last night, okay?”

“You got—” His father looked furious. “Get in the car. I’ll bring you home. You,” he said to Derek, “get out of here.”

“With pleasure,” Derek muttered, shutting his door. Stiles stepped back so he could pull away. As Derek’s taillights disappeared into the darkness, he turned his head to glare at his father.

“Thanks a fucking lot, Dad.”

“Watch your mouth,” his father snapped. “You’re on my shit list tonight, Stiles. Get in the car.”

Stiles stomped over to the cruiser, climbing into the passenger’s seat and slamming the door. His father sat down in the other side, but he didn’t begin driving immediately.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he asked.

“Because it’s not a big deal,” Stiles said shortly. “The kid didn’t even take anything.”

“You got hurt. You need to report it.”

“I’m not going to report it!” Stiles snapped. “Jesus Christ, Dad! I’m twenty-four years old; I can handle myself! And seriously, thanks a lot for yelling at Derek. You’re the worst cock block ever. _God._ I was hoping I’d at least get a _kiss_ tonight.”

His father made an angry noise and pulled the cruiser away from the curb. They drove in silence for a few blocks. Then the sheriff asked, slowly, like he didn’t really want to know the answer, “Is he your boyfriend?”

“No,” Stiles said irritably. “And now you’ve probably scared him off, so he never will be. Thanks.”

“Sorry.” His father pulled the cruiser up in front of Stiles’ apartment building. They sat in silence for a few moments. “I wasn’t anticipating such an exciting evening,” his father offered eventually.

Stiles snorted. “I guess it could have been worst,” he said. “You could have shot Derek.”

“I’m sorry,” the sheriff repeated. “I hope I haven’t ruined things.”

“Me too,” Stiles sighed, opening the car door. “Night, Dad.”

Inside, he leaned against the door and sighed. Could that have _gone_ worse? He suspected that it was his fault Derek had been pulled over, since he’d gotten so worked up about his wife. Remembering that he had Derek’s number, he pulled out his phone and sent him a quick text.

_dude i am sooooo sorry about my dad. he says he’s sorry for busting your chops like that._

Derek didn’t text him back, which was not surprising, considering it was two-thirty in the morning. He didn’t text him the next day, either, and he didn’t come to the bar which, okay, he had kids and a real life to take care of. He didn’t come to the bar every day. Stiles was worried, though. Maybe his dad _had_ ruined everything. Maybe Derek had had a bad experience with the cops. He was a fighter, maybe he’d done some time for assault or something.

Stiles did not expect to see Derek waiting for him when he got out of work, so when he walked outside and saw him standing there, arms folded across his broad chest, Stiles just stopped walking. He and Derek had a stare down across the sidewalk. Eventually, Derek said, “I need to get home.”

“Sure,” Stiles said, not moving. “Why are you here?”

“To make sure you don’t get yourself killed,” Derek replied. “Are you going to get in?”

Stiles touched his cheek absently. The bruise was an awesome shade of yellow-green now. It made him look like he had the plague. He was kind of proud of it. “Okay.”

As they drove through the night, Stiles said, “You didn’t reply to my text.”

“I didn’t have anything to say.”

“I’m sorry about my dad.”

“So you said.”

“He’s kind of overprotective sometimes. After my mom died—well, it’s just the two of us. He still thinks he has to protect me.” Stiles swallowed, turning to look out the window. He didn’t see Derek shift, looking over at him. “He still thinks I’m a kid.”

“What happened to your mom?”

“Cancer.” Stiles kept his eyes on the window, watching the buildings flit by. “She died when I was eleven.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Stiles had said that so many times. He hated having this conversation. This was probably how Derek felt when he asked him about his wife. Stiles really wasn’t considerate at all.

They stopped at a red light, the car vibrating gently beneath them. Stiles closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window. Even at two in the morning it was still hot, not relief from the heat of the day.

“My parents died when I was a kid, too,” Derek offered. Stiles lifted his head, looking at him. The red light from the traffic light overhead lit his face with a harsh glow, making the shadows of his cheekbones even sharper than usual. “Our house burned down while my sister and I were at school.”

“Shit,” Stiles said. “That’s really shitty. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Stiles laughed, not amused, and Derek’s smile was bitter. Stiles didn’t really know what he was doing, but he reached over and put his hand on Derek’s. Derek looked down at their hands, his eyes red in the light from above. He didn’t say anything, and when the light turned green, he moved his hand from Stiles’ so he could steer. Stiles pulled his hand back, resisting the urge to keep it on Derek’s thigh.

In front of his apartment building, Stiles paused before unbuckling his seatbelt. “Um,” he said, not certain what he was about to say. Why did he need to say something? He couldn’t just learn to let silences be silent. Why did he always have to fill the void? “Derek.”

Derek turned to him, watching his face, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Stiles opened his mouth and closed it again. “Never mind.”

“Lost for words?” Derek said, and the corner of his mouth quirked in that semi-smile. “Strange.”

Stiles grinned and Derek moved faster than he could follow, grabbing his shirt and pulling him forward to press their lips together. Derek’s kiss was soft and demanding in one, and it threw Stiles off completely. He breathed against Derek’s lips and the other man began to pull back, uncertain, but Stiles put his hand on his arm and pulled him back, kissing him fiercely. Derek’s fist tightened in his shirt, his other hand lifting to cup Stiles’ neck, his thumb against the corner of his jaw. They came out of the kiss slowly, pressing their foreheads together. Derek’s breath was warm against Stiles’ lips. He closed his eyes.

“I’m really glad my dad didn’t scare you off.”

“He’s not that intimidating,”

“Don’t say that to his face.”

“I won’t.”

Stiles finally pulled his face away, sitting back in the seat. “Um, so, do you want to come inside? Or something?”

Derek watched him for a long moment. “I can’t,” he said eventually. “I need to get home.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, deflating. “Right.” Derek didn’t say anything, and Stiles realized he was waiting for him to get out of the car. “Right,” he said again, fumbling for the seat belt. “So, like, is that it, then?”

“Is what it?”

“Whatever that was,” Stiles said, pursing his lips in a kiss.

Derek rubbed a hand over his face. “I have to get home, Stiles. We can talk later.”

“Fine,” Stiles said, and climbed out of the car. “You’re a shitty person,” he added, not really meaning it. Derek seemed to understand this, because he flipped him off and sped away.

Stiles got a text from Derek early the next afternoon.

_When’s your next night off?_

Stiles bit back a grin and texted back as fast as he could move his fingers.

_sunday. why?_

_We need to talk. Do you have plans?_

Stiles' grin faded, his stomach suddenly kicking into nervous overtime. Was Derek going to break up with him? Not like they were together, of course. Maybe Derek didn't want to see him any more. But Derek was the one who'd kissed him! Not cool, man.

He texted back: _no plans._

_Can you come to the house? You do have a car, don't you?_

_yeah, i can drive. when should i come over?_

_Five good?_

_five's fine._

_Good. I'll see you then._

_see you._

Stiles spent the next two days thinking - over-thinking, really - worrying about what Derek was going to say. Derek didn't come into the bar, nor did he appear at night to take Stiles home, which was a little disappointing.

On Tuesday, Stiles drove over to Derek's house by memory, his palms sweaty against the steering wheel. When he knocked on the front door, it was swung open by Erica, who beamed at him. Stiles deflated further. Derek really wanted to talk with him while his kids were running around the house?

"Come on!" Erica said excitedly. "Dad's in the kitchen!" She took his hand and Stiles let himself be pulled inside, forcing a smile onto his face. He barely had time to kick off his shoes before Erica was pulling him across the living room. He spotted Isaac sitting on the floor in front of the tv, a stuffed wolf plush clutched in his arms (again with the wolves, Stiles thought vaguely). He managed a wave at the boy, who gave him a small smile, then they were in the kitchen.

The kitchen smelled delicious, like garlic and bread. Derek stood at the stove, stirring a pot of something, though he turned when Erica dragged Stiles in. “Hey,” he said, and smiled. Some of the tension in Stiles melted away at that look; surely Derek wouldn’t smile like that if their talk was going to be bad.

“Hey,” Stiles echoed, smiling back.

“Sorry about this,” Derek said, waving his spoon in Erica’s direction. “My niece is going to take them for the night, but she’s running late, so I made supper.”

“That’s fine with me,” Stiles replied. “It smells great.”

“You can set the table,” Derek directed. “Erica, show him how.”

“I know how to do it!” Stiles protested, but Erica grabbed his hand again and pulled him around the kitchen, pointing her small finger at different cabinets and drawers, telling him where the cups and plates and utensils are. She watches him set the table with her hands on her hips, lips puckered in a frown. “What’d I do wrong?” Stiles asked her.

“The forks are on the wrong side,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him.

Stiles sighed and corrected himself, calling across the kitchen to Derek, “Your daughter is just as bossy as you are.”

Derek and Erica laughed as one which Stiles thought was a little creepy but also kind of adorable. Stiles sat down at the table, waiting for Derek to finish cooking. Erica sat down next to him, her whole body swaying as she swung her legs back and forth.

“Is Stiles your real name?” she asked him curiously. Stiles looked over at Derek, who leaned against the counter, looking interested. He looked back at Erica.

“Uh, no, it’s just a nickname.”

“What’s your real name?”

Stiles told her. Erica tried to repeat it, stumbling over the syllables. She tried again, frowning, then shook her head. “Isaac can say it,” she said, hopping out of her chair. “He’s good at words.” And she trotted away, apparently to go fetch Isaac.

Derek was still watching him. Stiles looked back. “That’s a mouthful,” Derek said. “What is that?”

“Polish,” Stiles replied. “It was my grandfather’s name.”

“Your father’s father?”

“My mom’s,” Stiles said quietly.

Derek watched him for a long moment. “You miss her.” It wasn’t a question.

Stiles nodded, his throat tightening. Thirteen years later and it still hurt to talk about her. Derek seemed to understand, because he didn’t ask any more questions. He turned back to the stove, pulling a pot off the heat. Stiles watched him absently, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves.

Erica came back to the kitchen a minute later, towing Isaac behind her. She really liked pulling people around, Stiles thought, watching her. Whoever she ended up marrying, she was definitely going to wear the pants in that relationship. Isaac put the brakes on five feet from Stiles, refusing to let Erica pull him any closer. He stared at Stiles, clutching his stuffed animal close to his chest.

“Come onnnnn,” Erica sang. “Tell Isaac your name, Stiles!”

Stiles grinned and told Isaac his name. Isaac looked into the air for a moment, then repeated it back flawlessly.

“Nice,” Stiles told him. “No one’s ever been able to say it on the first try.”

Isaac smiled a tiny smile, pleased. Stiles could see Derek out of the corner of his eye, watching them, wearing his own pleased smile. Stiles himself was pleased he could make Derek happy. If that meant being cool with his kids, that was fine. He liked the kids, honestly; not that he had spent much time with them, but Derek was a good dad, and it showed in them.

The front door opened. “Hello?” called a soft female voice.

The twins spun around and Erica shrieked, _“Allison!”_ They stampeded out of the kitchen, and Stiles could hear a lot of laughter coming from the living room. He looked over at Derek.

“She’s Kate’s niece,” Derek explained quietly. “I don’t know if we’re technically related any more, but she’s the kids’ cousin. They love her.”

“All right,” Stiles said, as Allison walked into the kitchen, Isaac perched on her shoulders, looking pleased as punch. Erica trotted along at her side, grinning.

Allison was dark-haired and paled-skinned, petite but wiry. She looked amazingly competent, and while Stiles wasn’t attracted to her, he knew Scott would be in a heartbeat.

“Hey, Derek,” she said, swinging Isaac off her shoulders. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek interrupted. “I made dinner. You can eat and then take the kids.”

“All right,” Allison grinned, sitting down at the table with Stiles. She gave him a friendly look. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Stiles replied, offering her a hand across the table. “Stiles.”

Allison’s eyebrows rose. “So _you’re_ Stiles.”

Stiles laughed uncomfortably. “My reputation precedes me wherever I go.”

Allison’s cheeks went a little red. “I—no, sorry, I work with Lydia. She told me about you. I didn’t realize you were…friends with Derek.”

“…yeah,” Stiles said, his eyes flickering to Derek, who had turned back to the stove, pouring pasta into a bowl. “Did we go to high school together?”

“Oh, no.” Allison shook her head. “I only moved out here a few months ago. Right around the same time Derek did.” She smiled over at her uncle which, whoa, that was a weird thought. “Where’s Boyd, Derek?”

“Skulking around upstairs,” Derek replied, bringing a bowl of steaming pasta over to the table. “He’s mad at me.”

“Why’s that?” Stiles asked.

“School starts next week, and he’s just remembered that he doesn’t know anyone up here,” Derek sighed. “Can’t say I don’t understand, but I had to get out of Sacramento.”

Stiles looked down at his hands, unsure of what to say. Allison sighed and pushed back her chair. “I’ll go get him.”

Dinner was delicious; pasta with homemade sauce and garlic bread. Stiles ate quietly, watching Allison chat away with Erica and Isaac. The twins seemed very excited to be going over to Allison’s, mostly, it seemed, because Allison’s complex had a swimming pool.

“With a _slide_!” Erica squealed. “Dad, we can go on it, right?”

“If Allison’s watching you,” Derek confirmed.

When they finally left, the twins skipping along in front, Boyd trailing rebelliously behind, the house suddenly seemed very quiet. Stiles helped Derek clean up the kitchen, and they didn’t speak. Once everything was put away, Derek leaned against the counter, rubbing a hand over his face. “You want a drink?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed gladly. Derek pulled a six-pack out of the fridge. He handed one bottle to Stiles, opened one for himself, and hefted the rest of the pack in his hand.

“Come on,” he said, stepping around the counter and walking toward a sliding glass door. “It’s a nice night.”

Stiles followed him into the backyard, across the long, sloping lawn toward the tree line, where there was a fire pit built into the sod.

“Make yourself comfy,” Derek said, setting down the six-pack and nodding toward an array of chairs pulled around the pit. Stiles sat, watching Derek cross the lawn and disappear into the trees only to reappear a few moments later, his arms full of logs and sticks. He built a fire quickly and efficiently, like he’d done this more than once. Stiles admired his skill; his dad had never had time to take him camping, not like Stiles really liked the outdoors that much.

When the fire burned merrily in front of them, Derek sat next to Stiles, slouching into an Adirondack chair. Stiles sipped at his beer, watching Derek from the corner of his eyes. The fire reflected off Derek’s pale eyes, casting them an orange color.

“I used to be a fighter,” Derek said, his voice low.

Stiles, about to bring the bottle to his lips, lowered it. “I know.” Derek threw him a puzzled look and he explained, “Scott knew who you were when he saw you. He’s into that sort of stuff.”

“And?”

“And what?” Stiles asked.

“What did you think when you found out?”

“Nothing, really,” Stiles shrugged. “I mean, I looked you up online.”

“So you knew what happened to Kate. But you still asked,” Derek growled.

“I’m not going to pretend like I wasn’t curious,” Stiles told him, twisting in the seat so he could look in Derek’s face directly. “Yeah, I read about it, but I didn’t want to seem like I was _stalking_ you or anything.

"So yeah, I knew what happened to her, but I'm not stupid enough to assume that just because I know that that I know the truth, or how you feel about it. I wasn't trying to find out stuff about you so that I could seduce you or whatever."

Derek watched him for a long moment, his expression even. "I know that," he said eventually. "I'm not mad at you, Stiles. I probably would have done the same."

Stiles relaxed a little. "Okay, so...what now?"

"I need you to understand," Derek said quietly. "What she did. How she treated me, and how it ended...it fucked me up. I've been seeing a therapist for years, but it's not really helping. I..." He turned his head away, and Stiles could see the muscles working in his jaw. "Before the other night, I hadn't even touched someone other than my kids or my sister in five years." He laughed bitterly. "And now you think I'm crazy."

"I don't think that," Stiles said quietly. "I think you're a good person that's had a shitty life."

"Understatement of the year," Derek muttered. "But thanks."

Stiles looked over at him. Derek still had his head turned, the light of the fire casting deep shadows on his face. It felt a lot like the moment at the traffic light and Stiles did the same thing he'd done then, reaching over to put his hand on Derek's. Derek turned to look at him, his face blank. He stared at Stiles for a long moment, then flipped his hand so he could curl their fingers together.

The evening wore on peacefully. It was a little hot for a fire, but Stiles wasn't about to complain when he was sitting there drinking beer and holding the hand of the hottest guy he'd ever seen. They talked idly, avoiding serious topics for a while. Stiles told Derek about the time his dad had once caught him when he was so high all he could do was lay on his bedroom floor and cry about how high he was, and his dad had laughed so hard that _he_ cried. Derek actually laughed at that, the first time Stiles had heard him do so. It was pleasantly rich and Stiles resolved to make him laugh as often as possible.

Eventually the fire died down and they wandered back into the house. The lights in the kitchen seemed harsh after the soft light of the fire. Stiles went to take a piss (he snooped around in the bathroom drawers after he was done but there wasn’t much to find) and when he came back, Derek was standing in the middle of the living room, looking nervous.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” he asked.

“I drove here,” Stiles replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh.” Derek looked down at his keys, clutched in his hand. “Right.”

“You’re kicking me out?”

Derek opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I can’t just jump into this,” he said finally. “You can spend the night here, but you’re not going to be in my bed. I’m sorry.”

Stiles frowned. “Don’t apologize, Derek. If you’re not comfortable, that’s fine.”

“Okay.” Derek rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, looking uneasy. “I am sorry, though. It’s not like I don’t want it.”

“Just start slow,” Stiles said. He took a step closer to Derek, spreading his arms welcomingly.

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Touch me,” Stiles said simply. “Get used to someone else’s body.”

Derek stared at him a long time before moving forward, exhaling hard through his nose. He kept his eyes fixed on Stiles’, placing a hand flat on his chest, five fingers splayed out. Stiles met Derek’s gaze steadily, though his heart began pounding in his chest at Derek’s touch, and he knew Derek could feel it. The former fighter smiled faintly and slid his hand upward, up Stiles’ neck to cup the back of his head. Stiles closed his eyes, not trusting himself, and his dick twitched in his pants when Derek pulled a thumb across his lips. He heard Derek breathe out again, his breath sounding harsher than before, and he stepped closer; Stiles could feel the warmth coming from his body, so close, yet not touching.

Derek’s hands moved back down his body, slipping around his waist and pulling him in so that their bodies finally touched. Stiles shivered at the contact and lifted his hands without prompting, folding his arms around Derek’s neck. Derek smelled like wood smoke and wheat. The fighter made a quiet noise and pressed his face to the side of Stiles’ neck, breathing in deeply. Stiles could feel Derek’s heart beating against his, a fast staccato.

In that moment, Stiles realized how lonely Derek must be. He’d moved to town knowing no one, his only companions two five-year-olds and a silent teenager. His only living relative, his sister, had been left behind in Sacramento. He hadn’t touched another person for five years because his wife had screwed him up so badly. Stiles wondered how long he’d wallowed in loneliness before that, the rest of his family dead, and him making a living by punching people in the face. It made Stiles realized just how lucky he was to have friends and a father still living.

His body was hot, pressed against the heat of Derek’s; he felt like he was on fire, but the embrace had passed beyond sexual. He’d never felt so…connected to someone before, like his body was made to be pushed up against Derek’s. He didn’t feel like he needed to move, push Derek onto the couch and fuck his brains out, or anything. Well, he _wanted_ to, but in that moment, he didn’t need to. He felt content, happier than he had in a long time. He _loved_ Derek.

Stiles’ lips parted at the realization, eyes fluttering open. It was a kind of scary thought; he hadn’t been in a relationship since he was in college, and none of them had lasted for more than a few months. And yet he stood here, and the thought of being with Derek for a while, maybe years, maybe _forever_ didn’t seem all that farfetched. And that was kind of frightening but, mm, yeah, awesome at the same time.

He could wait. He didn’t know what Kate had done to Derek to screw him up so badly, but he could be patient. It wasn’t like he couldn’t jack off when he needed to. He was willing to go slow to make this perfect, because he knew it could be, and he wanted it to be. He just hoped that Derek felt the same.

Hours seemed to pass like that, Stiles standing with his arms clasped around Derek’s neck, and the fighter pulled tight against him, one hand slipped under the edge of his shirt, palm pressed flush to his skin. Finally Derek sighed and straightened, pulling away from Stiles. Stiles made a small, disappointed noise but let his arms fall to his sides, letting Derek set the pace. Derek licked his lips and Stiles watched his tongue avidly.

“Are you gonna stay?” Derek asked, and Stiles blinked.

“What?”

“Are you going to stay?” Derek repeated. “Or drive home?”

“Oh. I, uh, stay, if that’s okay.”

Derek nodded. “You may get jumped on if you’re still here when Allison brings the kids back. It’s Erica’s favorite way of waking people up.”

“I’ll take the risk,” Stiles grinned.

Derek smiled slightly, lifting a hand to ruffle his hair fondly. “You’ll be rewarded for your bravery, I promise you.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Stiles replied. Derek smiled at that and then turned away, disappearing into the kitchen and reappearing a few moments later with an armful of blankets.

“Here,” he said, shoving them into Stiles’ arms. “Do you need anything else?”

“Is playtime over?” Stiles pouted.

“Unlike you, I have a real job,” Derek snorted, “and need to be up at a reasonable hour.”

“Pfft,” Stiles scorned, spreading the blankets out on the couch. “Like I want to be a real adult anyway.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles paused, a pillow in his arms. “What, no bedtime story?”

Derek shoved him into the couch and escaped upstairs. Stiles grinned and went to find the downstairs bathroom so he could jack off in peace.

-

Stiles dimly woke up when the front door opened sometime early the next morning, but he _definitely_ woke up when there was a high-pitched shriek of joy in his ear and a small body landed on his stomach with such force that all the air in his lungs went rushing out of him in a pained howl.

“Erica!” Allison admonished, from somewhere over by the door. “Don’t jump on people without asking!”

Stiles opened his eyes, wheezing, to see Erica sitting on his chest, looking absolutely pleased with herself. “What are you still doing here?” she asked him curiously.

“Uh,” Stiles said dumbly.

“Adults can have sleepovers too,” Allison said smoothly, plucking Erica off Stiles’ chest. He gave her a grateful look, which she returned with a cryptic smile. “Why don’t you go wake your dad up?”

Erica ran off, looking highly excited. Allison remained where she was, staring down at Stiles. “So…are you and Derek…?” She trailed away suggestively.

Stiles sat up, wincing at the way his chest protested. “No. I mean, not yet. Hopefully soon.”

“Be careful,” the girl warned, lowering her voice. “My aunt wasn’t a nice person, Stiles. She used Derek and it really messed him up. He has a hard time trusting people.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Stiles replied. “Thanks for the heads up, though.”

Allison nodded, her big brown eyes unhappy. “He’s a really good person. He deserves happiness. And,” she added, her voice light, “if you hurt him, I’ll break your arms.”

Stiles stared at her and she smiled sweetly. “Derek’s not the only fighter in the family.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “All right. Okay. Will keep that in mind.”

There was a noise like a wounded elephant from upstairs, followed by the sound of Erica shrieking with laughter. Allison snorted, putting her hand over her mouth. Stiles laughed; he could hear Derek’s bitten-off swears from here. “You’re evil.”

“I better go put a pot of coffee on,” Allison giggled. “He’s going to be so mad when he comes down here.”

Stiles laid back on the couch, listening to Allison in the kitchen, and Derek stomping around upstairs, barking at Erica. Isaac came sidling into the living room, still clutching his wolf plush, but stopped when he saw Stiles laying on the couch.

“Hey,” Stiles waved, “you want to watch some TV? They have good cartoons on in the morning, right?”

Isaac looked nervously at the stairs. “We’re not allowed to watch TV in the morning.”

“Come on,” Stiles coaxed, moving his feet so there was room for Isaac at the end. “I’ll tell your dad it was my idea, because it was.”

Isaac sent the upstairs another fearful look, but his craving for cartoons won out over his fear, and he climbed onto the sofa. He and Stiles watched _Spongebob Squarepants_ for ten minutes before Derek came stomping down the stairs, looking as though he was in a very bad temper. Stiles and Isaac both watched him, Isaac looking very anxious indeed, but when Derek noticed the cartoons all he did was flare his nostrils and pat Isaac on the head. He did the same to Stiles, looking condescending, but his touch was gentle.

“How old are you, anyway?”

“Probably about seven,” Stiles grinned. “Eight may be pushing it.”

“Just what I needed,” Derek groaned, heading into the kitchen. “Another child in the house.”

Stiles turned back to the television, grinning. He could hear Derek in the kitchen talking, and Allison giggling. Derek did not sound amused. Stiles and Isaac watched TV together for a while longer, until they were interrupted by Derek bellowing, “Breakfast!”

Isaac shot off the couch. Stiles stood slowly, stretching luxuriously before following the boy more slowly. Erica appeared after they’d already sat at the table, looking cowed.

“Erica is in disgrace,” Derek announced, setting a plate of pancakes on the table, “until she learns that it’s not kind to jump on people while they’re sleeping. Uh uh,” he said, as she reached a hand toward the plate. “You get cereal.”

Erica pouted.

Stiles left when Allison and Derek did, leaving the twins in Boyd’s care. As Allison pulled away in her sedan, Derek caught Stiles’ wrist. Stiles turned to look at him, the nerves in his arm going crazy at Derek’s touch.

“Thanks,” Derek said, “for last night.”

“My pleasure,” Stiles replied, a smile curling his lips. “You want to come over sometime? I’ll cook for you for once.”

“Sure,” Derek agreed, giving Stiles his trademark mouth quirk. He tugged at Stiles’ wrist and Stiles let him pull him in. Their kiss was slow and unhurried, but it sent Stiles’ heart pounding furiously in his chest. He had to resist the urge to push Derek against his car and go to town. They pulled apart slowly, and Stiles’ eyes flickered to the house. He grinned.

“You’re grossing out your kids.”

“Huh?” Derek turned. Erica and Isaac were standing in the front window, making disgusted faces. “Great. Now I have to explain myself when I come home from work.” He turned back to Stiles, a smile creeping onto his face. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Of course,” Stiles agreed, grinning.

Still smiling, Derek climbed into his car, and Stiles headed for the jeep, which was parked on the street. He went home and fell into bed, where he slept until he had to go to work.

-

He called out of work a few days later, much to Jackson’s ire, in order to have an evening free so Derek could come over. He made them dinner – stir fry, which was one of the few things he could cook. Derek seemed to like it or he didn’t complain, at least.

They watched a movie, some shitty SyFy horror film, together on the couch. Derek kept his hand on Stiles’ leg, like he was afraid he was going to slip away. There was no chance of that, but Stiles was _not_ complaining. He took the touch as a good sign and, when the movie started getting dull, shifted carefully so that he was pressed up against Derek’s side. Derek didn’t say anything, but lifted his arm to wrap around Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles smiled.

Lydia came whirling in some time later, chattering away on her phone. She beamed at Stiles, who gave her a short wave, and nodded to Derek, who nodded back. She disappeared into her room, then reemerged ten minutes later, still on the phone, sailing back out of the apartment.

“That was Lydia,” Stiles told Derek.

“She’s very pretty.”

Stiles grinned. “Is that jealousy I detect?”

Derek snorted.

“Well, don’t be,” Stiles explained. “I had a crush on her all through elementary and high school, but she never noticed me. When I went to college, I kind of had this awakening and…not _forgot_ about her, but…there were other people, and I moved on.”

“So how’d you end up as roommates?”

“She used to date Jackson in high school,” Stiles replied, “and when I started working at the bar, I told him I wanted to move out of my dad’s house and he put me in touch with Lydia. I don’t know why she decided it would be a good idea,” he added. “Her parents are _loaded_ and she definitely could have afforded her own place, but this has worked out really well.”

“That’s good,” Derek said.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. Thinking about Lydia reminded him of Allison. “Hey, Allison told me she’s a fighter too. Is that true?”

“Mm,” Derek said. “She’s not professional, but she trains with her dad. He used to fight too. Different weight class than me, though. I never fought him.”

Stiles hesitated before asking his next question. “Is that how you met Kate?”

Derek stiffened. There was a long, awkward pause before he said, “Yeah. She wasn’t a fighter; she just used to hang out around the ring and flirt. Like a groupie.”

“Oh.” Stiles shifted, pressing himself closer to Derek, Derek’s hand tightening on his shoulder in response. He wasn’t jealous of a dead woman. He wasn’t. “How did you get into fighting, anyway?”

There was another long pause on Derek’s side. “After my parents died,” he said carefully, “there was a lot of hurt and anger in me. I got into a lot of fights at school because the pain – the physical pain, I mean – helped me forget. Laura pushed me to join a gym, and I learned kickboxing. It was great. It helped me a lot, and so I kept with it and learned some other styles, and eventually I joined a league, and then I got contracted to the UFC. I was nineteen.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” Stiles admitted. “When I was nineteen, I was spending all my time getting drunk and not studying.” He hesitated again. “Will you tell me how you ended up with Kate?”

Derek paused. “Why are you so interested in her?”

“I’m just…” Stiles bit his lip. “I’m being nosy, honestly. I want to make sure I understand, though. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Derek lifted his hand from Stiles’ shoulder and for a brief moment, Stiles was sure he was about to stand and leave. But then he put his hand on Stiles’ head, threading his hand through his hair, blunt fingers scraping against his scalp. Stiles closed his eyes at the sensation as Derek began to talk, and he had a weird feeling that the touch was helping Derek stay grounded.

Derek was twenty-one when he became the youngest UFC champion in the league’s history, and the fame that followed brought him a lot of money and attention, both of which went to his head. He spent a lot of time attending parties at the most elite clubs and buying a lot of shit he didn’t need. He bought homes for himself and Laura in Sacramento, where they’d relocated to after the fire. He fucked a long line of nameless, blandly hot girls, which he told himself was okay because he just wanted their bodies, and they just wanted his money.

He met Chris Argent, who had been a fighter in the UFC’s early days, at a banquet somewhere in the southwest, maybe Texas, and he introduced Derek to Kate. Kate was older than him, nearly ten years so, but smart and snarky and _alive_ like the other girls hadn’t been. She moved in with him only a month after meeting, and Derek got to know the other side of her – the dark, bad-tempered, manipulative side, but he wasn’t doing a lot of thinking with his brain at that point in his life, and he ignored the warning signs.

Kate had a drug problem. Derek never touched anything; he was tested before every fight, and it had never been his thing, anyway, but Kate…Kate would disappear for days at a time, leaving Derek to watch over Boyd, her nine-year-old son from a previous relationship. She would resurface days later, disheveled and repentant and she’d suck Derek off before he could get mad. Significant amounts of his money disappeared like that, and he should have paid attention then, but he was stupid and young and wanted to believe in the good of people.

Kate disappeared for nearly a month. Derek had to hire a nanny for Boyd so he could work, and when Kate came back, he opened his mouth to tell her to pack her shit and leave, but before he could she burst into tears and told him she was pregnant. That changed everything. Maybe Derek punched people for a living, but he was a good person, and so he married Kate instead, hoping that maybe having kids together would change them for the better. He adopted Boyd, because it seemed like the right thing to do. He made Kate go to rehab and she stayed there for the nine months it took the twins to develop, and for a while, things seemed like they were getting better.

But after the twins were born, Kate went right back to her old ways, disappearing for longer periods of time than she was home for. She didn’t know he was home when he heard her on the phone one day, laughing with a friend, saying she didn’t even know if the twins were his. Derek saw red. He had guessed, at the back of his mind, that Kate was sleeping around, but the soft part of his heart didn’t want to believe it, had pushed the thought aside. The ensuing yelling match that followed ended in Kate calling the cops and Derek being hauled away. He spent one night in jail and nearly lost his contract.

After that, the relationship quickly downspiraled. Derek stayed away from home as much as he could, putting all of his fury into his fights, winning match after match and racking up bonuses. He was twenty-two, reigning light heavyweight champion for nearly five hundred days, when Kate died.

Boyd found her in the bathroom, curled on the floor with a needle in her arm. Derek was in Las Vegas, meeting with the franchise owner and negotiating a new fight fee when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it at first, figuring it was Kate, but when it kept ringing he excused himself from the meeting and went out into the hall. Boyd was breathless but weirdly calm. Derek told him to take the twins and go into his room and shut the door. Then he called 911, persuading the operator to connect him through to Sacramento so he could contact the police there. Once they were on their way to the house, Derek went back into his meeting. He told the franchise owner, “My wife is dead, and I need to go home,” and the man was so worried that he let Derek take his private jet and fly directly back to the city.

The flight took less than an hour, but the thought of Boyd and his kids sitting at home with Kate dead made his stomach turn. He wasn’t upset, not about Kate, but he was furious at her – for dying, for leaving the kids without a mother, for making Boyd see her like that. He gritted his teeth, staring out at the bright afternoon sky. She was a selfish bitch, even in death.

When he got to the house, stumbling out of the taxi in his haste, the front door was hanging off its hinges, like they’d had to break it open. He crashed through it, yelling for Boyd and after a moment, the kid came running out of the living room. Derek fell to his knees and let Boyd run into him, throwing his arms around him. Boyd didn’t cry out loud, but Derek could feel his tears, wet against his cheek.

A woman followed Boyd from the living room, a somber look on her face. Derek got to his feet, easily hefting Boyd up with him. Boyd sniffed loudly in his arm, his small arms tightening around Derek’s neck. He wished he could bring Kate back to life, if only to kill her again for doing this to her son.

“Helen Meloy, Department of Social Services,” the woman told him. “You’re Derek Hale?”

He nodded and asked, “Where are Isaac and Erica?”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “Sleeping upstairs.”

“And Kate?”

“At the hospital. I thought it would be best if we waited here for you before heading that way.”

Derek’s mouth went thin. “Is she…”

“She was alive when they took her out of here,” Helen replied softly, her eyes on Boyd. “I’m not aware of her current status.”

Derek gritted his teeth. So she wasn’t even dead? God, fuck her to hell. “I need to go to the hospital.”

The woman nodded. “Certainly. However, the police need to talk to you, and you and I need to have a conversation about the welfare of your children.”

Derek’s arms tightened around Boyd. “Can’t it wait?”

“I can come back tomorrow, but I don’t think the police are going to wait,” Helen replied. She handed him two cards; one had her name on it, while the other had the name of a detective. “They want you to call.”

“Fine,” Derek said. “After I go to the hospital.”

She nodded briskly and left him alone. Derek sighed, turning and pressing his lips to Boyd’s dark cheek before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. “Laura?” he said. “I need you over here. Now. It’s an emergency.” His sister didn’t question him, just promised she’d be over in fifteen minutes. Derek hung up and questioned Boyd, “Can I set you down?” Boyd shook his head, his arms tightening around Derek’s neck. “All right, just don’t choke me, please,” Derek said, making his way down the hall and up the stairs. He passed the bathroom, which was an absolute mess, and went into the twins’ room.

They were both asleep, looking peaceful. Derek touched their faces gently, careful not to wake them. Relieved, he went back downstairs and sat down on the couch, arranging Boyd so the boy was curled against his chest. He put a hand on the boy’s short hair, murmuring, “You did a great job, Boyd. I’m really proud of you.” Boyd relaxed against him, and he was asleep by the time Laura came climbing over the remains of the front door.

“What happened?” she asked quickly. “Who ripped down your door? I thought you were in Vegas.”

“Kate’s in the hospital,” he told her. “I think she OD’d. Can you watch the kids?”

Laura’s face went flat. “Derek,” she began.

Derek sighed and carefully pulled Boyd off him, laying him down on the couch. He walked over to his sister, standing close so he could say, “I know what you want to say, and I agree. This is the last straw. If she’s not dead, I’m going to a divorce lawyer. But right now, I have to go to the hospital.”

Laura nodded and patted his cheek. Derek grabbed his keys and left in the Camaro, driving faster than he should have to get to the hospital. Inside, he got lost. The lobby was full of people, milling around.

“Derek Hale?” He turned. There was a lean cop standing behind him, arms crossed over his chest. “Deputy Beck. You looking for your wife?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, and the deputy crooked a finger at him. Derek followed him out of the lobby and down a series of hallways, where it got quieter. The cop paused.

“Mr. Hale,” Beck said, meeting Derek’s eyes seriously. “Your wife has passed away.”

Derek stared back at the man. He didn’t know how to react. “The social worker said she was alive when they got to the house,” he said finally, lifting a hand and rubbing at the back of his neck.

“She died on the way,” the cop said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Derek shook his head, like he was trying to clear water from his ears. “What happened to her? Our son – he found her – he didn’t know –”

“Overdose,” the deputy replied. He narrowed his eyes at Derek. “I’m afraid we’ve got some questions for you. Are you comfortable here, or would you like to come down to the station?”

“Should I call my lawyer?”

The deputy shook his head. “We know you were in Las Vegas, Mr. Hale. You’re not a suspect. There are no suspects; coroner thinks this was accidental.”

Derek rubbed a hand over his neck again. “Shit.”

Beck gave him a long look. “Were you aware that your wife was a drug user?”

“Not at home.” Derek closed his eyes, remembering the fights. “Sometimes she’d go out and come back high, but I told her if she ever did it in front of the kids, that was it.”

“And yourself?”

“Never.”

“No drugs kept in the house?”

“No.” Derek gritted his teeth. “Maybe she did, but not that I know of.” Just the thought of Kate hiding her stash somewhere in the house made his blood boil.

He answered the rest of the deputy’s questions, then a doctor brought him to see Kate’s body. He stared down at her pale frame, and all he could think about what how relieved he was. He went home and called Chris, broke the news to him, then fixed the front door so it actually closed. Laura hung around the house; she seemed to be under the impression that Derek needed company, but he felt fine.

The next day, he talked to the social services lady and had to convince her to let him keep the kids. He promised her that he was retiring from the UFC so he could focus on them and he did; he had one more fight after Kate’s death, a title defense he lost on purpose, letting himself get knocked out in the first round.

He didn’t want to have a funeral for Kate; he wanted her cremated and her ashes thrown in the trash, and the smallest tombstone possible to mark her grave. He owed her family, though; Chris, and his daughter Allison, deserved more than that, so he paid for a nice funeral that hardly anyone came to. He watched them lower her coffin into a grave and never returned to that cemetery, except five years later, which was mostly for Boyd’s benefit.

As the days wore on, the feelings of relief and being fine wore away. He found himself spending a lot of time sitting around the house, thinking about Kate and all the shit she’d gotten him into. He thought about the pain he’d felt in his heart at the news that the twins might not be his. He thought about having a DNA test done, but he didn’t want to know the truth, because that might hurt even more. He thought about the way Kate had pried his heart open and how every little thing she’d done had hurt him more thoroughly than a bullet to the head.

The days turned into months. Derek found an entry-level job in an insurance firm. He didn’t need to work; he had millions in the bank from all his wins, but if he didn’t get out of the house he was going to go crazy. He worked steadily for the next five years, making few friends and rebuffing advances from his female coworkers. He barely talked to anyone. The only joy in his life came from his kids.

Laura worried about him. She convinced him that moving would be good for him; there were too many memories in Sacramento. Derek agreed with her there, and so he packed up his life and moved north to Beacon Hills. His uncle had owned a house up there and Derek remembered visiting as a kid, walking in the quiet woods and enjoying the simple life. It was as good a place as any to wallow in misery.

But Laura had been right; he needed a change in scenery. To his surprise and slight unease, he found himself warming up to his new coworkers, and he started smiling again – well, smirking, maybe. He didn’t think of Kate that often; he was too busy taking Isaac to lacrosse, and teaching Boyd to drive, and bringing Erica to the park for long walks in the sunshine. And when he walked into the bar after a shitty trip back to Sacramento on the anniversary of Kate’s death, he saw Stiles standing behind the counter and his entire world shifted for the better.

-

Derek didn’t tell Stiles all of this, especially not the last part, but he told him enough so he’d understand, and Stiles did. He sat with his eyes wide, still pressed along Derek’s side, but it wasn’t as comfortable as before. Derek laughed uncomfortably. “Sorry. I’m sorry. That was a lot. I—”

Stiles shook his head violently. “No. Don’t.” He turned to look Derek in the eyes, his face serious. “Thanks for telling me. Thanks for trusting me that much. I really…I mean, that totally wasn’t necessary. I was just being nosy, and you told me. I really appreciate it. Really.” He slipped his hand into Derek’s, fingers tight against his palm.

Derek looked at their hands for a long moment. He shifted suddenly, pushing Stiles down against the couch, their lips meeting in a clash of warmth. Stiles gasped, wriggling around so he was flat on his back and Derek climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. He pushed his hands under Stiles’ shirt, seeking the warmth of his skin, dragging his blunt nails across Stiles’ soft stomach. Stiles moaned against his lips, low and needy. Derek ducked his head, pulling his teeth down Stiles’ neck and attacking his collarbone. Stiles arched his back, hissing between his teeth. He was hot, like his blood was boiling under his skin and he jerked away from Derek so he could rip off his shirt.

The slow smile that spread across Derek’s face made him groan, falling back against the couch so Derek could pull his tongue down Stiles’ chest, following the swell of muscle. Stiles buried his hands in Derek’s hair, tugging lightly. Derek growled, low in his chest and bit at the skin below Stiles’ bellybutton.

“Aw, _shit_ ,” Stiles breathed. He pulled at Derek, tugging at the hem of his shirt. Derek took the hint and pulled his shirt off. Stiles groaned at the sight of his bare chest and he put out his hands, touching as much of Derek’s hot skin as he could. He pushed against Derek and the fighter let himself fall back so Stiles could climb on top of him. Stiles, panting, rolled his hips against Derek’s and Derek groaned, his hands flying to Stiles’ side. Stiles grinned slackly, putting one hand on Derek’s chest so he could feel his heart, beating so fast it was nearly one long pulse. Stiles grinned again, scooting back a few inches so he could get at Derek’s pants. He unbuttoned them successfully and pulled his pants, along with his underwear, down far enough to free his dick. It smacked against his abs with a wet noise, leaking precome.

Derek sucked in air through his teeth. “Stiles,” he said quietly.

“What?” Stiles murmured, ducking his head and licking up Derek’s length.

Derek groaned, putting a hand on Stiles’ head. “Stop. Stiles, stop.”

Stiles sat up slowly, his eyes dark with lust and worry. “What?” he asked again.

“I can’t,” Derek muttered. “I just…not right now.”

“Oh.” Stiles slid off Derek, looking concerned. “Are you okay? Is this a…Is it too soon?”

Derek nodded stiffly, hitching his pants back up.

“Jeeze, I’m sorry, dude,” Stiles said. He leaned down and picked up Derek’s shirt, which he handed over to him. “I guess I got carried away.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Derek said shortly. He sat up, rubbing a hand across his face. “I should go.”

“No, no,” Stiles protested. “Don’t just walk out. It’s okay, dude. I told you we can go as slow as you want. I don’t mind, honestly.”

“I wish you’d stop calling me ‘dude,’” Derek muttered, his hand still over his face. He gave a long sigh.

Stiles hopped to his feet. “Stay there,” he commanded, pointing at the couch. “I’m getting dessert. Don’t you dare leave.”

“All right,” Derek conceded, slumping into the couch. Stiles disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing a minute later with two bowls of ice cream. Just as he was about to hand Derek a bowl, Derek’s phone rang. The former fighter frowned as he picked it up. “Allison. What’s up?”

Stiles watched Derek’s face change, his eyes going distant and worried, lips parting slightly. “Stop worrying,” Derek said, as he listened to Allison on the other end. “Stop. I’m on my way, okay? Just relax.” He snapped the phone shut, teeth grinding together.

“Is everything all right?” Stiles was still holding the bowl of ice cream, awkwardly extended to Derek.

Derek stood, shaking his head. “I have to go,” he said. “Erica’s in the hospital.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles set down the bowls of ice cream. “Is she okay? What happened?”

“She had a seizure,” Derek said, repeating, “I have to go.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Derek paused in the middle of pulling on his leather jacket. He looked at Stiles, an odd expression on his face. Stiles held his breath. Finally Derek gave a short nod and Stiles moved, picking up his hoodie and pulling it on.

They drove to the hospital in silence. Stiles, glancing over at Derek and seeing him with his jaw clenched, hand so tight on the gearstick that his knuckles were white, put his hand over his. Derek glanced at it. He didn’t say a word, but his face loosened somewhat.

“Has this…happened before?” Stiles asked eventually, his voice soft.

Derek breathed in deeply. “Yeah,” he said shortly. “She’s got epilepsy.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Derek agreed. “Shit.”

They found Allison in a waiting room, her face stained with tears. Isaac was sitting next to her, with Boyd on his other side. She stood when they came in, rushing into Derek’s arms. He hugged her tightly. “You did a good job,” Stiles heard him say to her.

“I don’t want to babysit for you any more,” Allison said with a shaky laugh. Derek patted her on the back.

“Where is she?”

Allison nodded down the hallway. “They’re doing some kind of scan. I don’t know. I tried to catch her when she fell, but she hit her head on the coffee table. I’m sorry.” Her eyes filled with tears again.

“You did your best,” Derek said distractedly, staring down the hall. He moved over to Isaac and knelt to kiss his forehead. “You okay?” Isaac nodded; he looked confused, but not particularly worried. Derek touched his curls and looked to Boyd. “Boyd?”

“That was scary, Dad,” Boyd said, his eyes wide. “I know she’s…but I’d never seen it before.”

“Not much you can do,” Derek said steadily, putting a hand on Boyd’s shoulder. Stiles watched him, feeling like an intruder. A doctor came down the hallway, asking for Derek, and they retreated further down the hall to talk. Stiles sat down next to Allison, feeling useless. She turned to him, wiping tears off her face.

“I’m sorry we ruined your date.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Stiles told her. “Don’t apologize.”

She sniffed.

Derek and the doctor disappeared. The four sat in silence, waiting for any news. After another forty-five minutes, Derek reappeared, Erica draped over his shoulder. There was a white bandage wrapped around her head. Stiles and Allison both stood.

“Is she going to be okay?” Allison asked.

“Yeah,” Derek replied, hoisting Erica up further. She had her arms around his neck, eyes closed. “Doctor’s changing her meds. You ready?”

They left the hospital. Allison drove ahead with the kids to Derek’s house, while Derek brought Stiles back to his apartment. They pulled up out front and sat in silence for a long moment.

“Thanks for coming,” Derek said finally. “I appreciate the support.”

“Any time,” Stiles said, then winced. “Not that I want Erica to be in the hospital all the time. You know.”

“I know,” Derek said with a short nod.

“And look,” Stiles said, leaning across the center console. “Don’t worry about earlier, seriously. I want you to be comfortable.”

Derek lifted a hand, dragging his thumb across Stiles’ cheekbone. “I know,” he said again. Stiles smiled and he was relieved when Derek smiled back.

“Okay,” Stiles said, patting him on the thigh. “Get home and take care of your kids.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Derek promised, and drove off. Stiles went inside and masturbated to more of Derek’s fighting videos, coming so hard he cracked his shin against his desk during a spasm of pleasure, and when he woke up the next morning, it had bruised dark purple.

-

“Did you hurt yourself?” Derek asked, nodding at the bruise across Stiles’ shin. It was a few days later, and the bruise was barely there any more, just pale green and yellow skin. It didn’t even hurt when Stiles poked it.

“Just me being clumsy,” he said.

He was at Derek’s house, sitting on the back patio while Derek grilled up some hamburgers. The kids were in the front yard, having a water gun fight of epic proportions. Stiles could hear them all screaming. Even Boyd was laughing.

“How’s Erica doing?” Stiles asked Derek.

“Good,” he replied. “She doesn’t have seizures that often – maybe once every two months or so. She usually doesn’t even know that she’s had one.”

“Do you know why she has them?”

Derek shook his head. “No. I thought, at first, it might have something to do with Kate.” His lips went thin. “Like she’d been on something while pregnant, but she promised Allison that she hadn’t, and while she always lied to me, she never lied to Allison. So it’s something else. The doctor told me that sometimes there’s no cause; it just comes from nowhere. So I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Stiles said. He tilted his head toward the front yard, where the shouts of excitement had taken on a fevered pitch. He thought he heard a car door slam. “Is Allison coming over?”

“No,” Derek said. “Laura is. She’s staying for a few days.”

“Hey, wait!” Stiles sputtered. “You can’t just jump that on me! Not fair, dude!”

Derek turned to look at him, a grin on his face. “What?” he asked. “Are you nervous?”

“Uh—of course I am!” Stiles said, and Derek’s grin faded a little. “I mean, she’s obviously important to you, and I want to make a good impression—”

“It’s not like you’re meeting my parents,” Derek said, the grin sliding back onto his face.

“Close enough,” Stiles muttered, as Erica came screaming around the side of the house.

“Daaaaaaaaad!” she shrieked. “Aunt Laura’s here!”

Derek laughed. “So where is she? Did you leave her in the front yard?”

“Not quite,” laughed a voice from behind Stiles, and he twisted in his seat to see a woman step out of the house. She was older than Derek by a few years, but he could see the familial similarities in her dark hair and impressive cheekbones. She gave Stiles a warm smile and he couldn’t help but smile back. “Isaac helped me bring in my bags.”

Derek raised a heavy eyebrow. “Bags? How long do you think you’re staying?”

“As long as you want me, baby brother,” Laura said sweetly. She turned to look at Stiles, pale eyes sparkling. “You’ve got to be Stiles.”

“Hey,” Stiles said, half rising from his seat so he could shake her hand. “And you’re Laura.”

Laura smiled, looking over at Derek. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“ _Have_ you?” Stiles asked, intensely curious. He looked over at Derek as well, grinning widely. “Like what?”

“I know your father’s the sheriff,” Laura said, ticking facts off on her fingers. “I know you’re a bartender. And…” She cast a wicked grin in Derek’s direction. “I hear you’re good with your mouth, in more ways than one.”

Stiles’ mouth fell open. He stared at Derek, who turned back to the grill hurriedly, pink flushing the back of his neck. Laura joined Stiles at the patio table, looking smug. Stiles, despite being somewhat embarrassed, found himself liking Laura. She plucked up Erica, who was dancing around her chair, depositing her on her lap.

“Oh,” Laura sighed, tugging at Erica’s unruly blonde curls, “look at the state of you. You are getting a haircut this week, Goldilocks.”

“I’m Red Riding Hood!” Erica protested.

Laura laughed. “I guess that makes me the grandma, then.”

“You’re not old!” Erica exclaimed. “Not really.”

“Thanks, Erica,” Laura said dryly. She looked around. “Where’s Boyd?”

“Still battling it out with Isaac,” Derek replied, not turning from the grill. Stiles watched him, grinning; the back of his neck was still quite pink. He seemed to be right, however; whoops and hollers of joy were still echoing from the front yard.

Laura faked a pout. “Too bad. I wanted to pester him about getting a girlfriend.”

“Don’t,” Derek said shortly, turning from the grill with a plate of hamburgers in his hands. Stiles was interested to see how Derek’s eyes kept sliding away from him. He was really embarrassed! Stiles kind of enjoyed this power he seemed to have over Derek. “Erica, go get your brothers. It’s time to eat.”

Erica hopped off Laura’s lap obligingly and skipped away around the house. Derek pointed a finger at Laura. “ _You_ ,” he said, “behave. And _you_ ,” jabbing a finger at Stiles, “stop gloating.”

“I’m not gloating,” Stiles said with a smile, at the same time Laura said, “I am behaving.” They glanced at each other and grinned. Derek groaned.

“Great,” he said. “You two must have been separated at birth. Try not to take over the world while I’m getting the plates.”

As soon as Derek stepped inside, Laura leaned across the table and whispered, “Sorry for embarrassing you.”

“No, you’re not,” Stiles shot back, grinning.

“Okay, I’m not,” Laura admitted, “but I am glad to meet you. I know I don’t need to tell you how fucked up he is, but you’re doing wonders for him, Stiles. I mean, I’m pretty sure he laughed when I walked in, and I haven’t heard that sound in God knows how long. From what I hear, he’s opened up to you more than he has to anyone since Kate – since our _parents_ died.”

“I haven’t _done_ anything,” Stiles muttered, his cheeks going red.

Laura beamed at him. “You don’t have to. Just keep being you.”

Derek stepped back out onto the patio and glared at them suspiciously. “What are you whispering about?”

“Just our plans for global domination,” Laura replied cheekily. She sat up straight when Erica came skipping back around the side of the house, leading Isaac and Boyd. “There are my favorite nephews!”

Stiles thoroughly enjoyed the evening. They had another fire, this time with Laura and the kids. Despite Derek’s warning, Laura bugged Boyd about finding a girlfriend, which he shrugged off good-naturedly. Erica and Isaac ran circles around the house, high on sugar from too many smores, until they crashed together in the cool grass beyond the fire pit. Derek roped Boyd in to help carry the kids inside, leaving Stiles and Laura alone by the fire.

“So,” Laura said slowly, “I was joking before, about the whole being good with your mouth thing. He would never tell me something like that. But…not that I really want to know this about my own brother, have you guys…?” She trailed away suggestively.

“No,” sighed Stiles. “He’s really nervous, I think.”

Laura gave him a long, thoughtful look. “When Derek’s serious about something, he puts everything he has into it. That’s what made him such a great fighter, and a good father now. The trouble is, he did the same for Kate, gave her everything, and she turned around and pushed him into the mud, then kicked him while he was down. You can’t fault him for being scared to trust people now.”

“I don’t,” Stiles said quickly, shaking his head. “I don’t at all. I’m fine with taking it slow.”

“You’re a good person,” Laura said, leaning back in her chair. She tapped her nails against the armrest. “Sometimes I wish Kate would come back from the grave, just so I could bitchslap her back to hell.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “I’m beginning to feel that way too.”

Derek came back a few minutes later, reporting that all the kids had turned in for the night. He and Stiles and Laura sat out by the fire for another hour or two. Derek was more relaxed than Stiles had ever seen him, and he wondered if it was because of Laura’s presence. They told Stiles stories about their childhood, of the huge old house they had shared with cousins and aunts and uncles. They told him about their secret spot down in the basement, where a loose stone hid a pocket in the wall that held all their most precious treasures. They got into a loud argument about the name of their childhood dog which only ended when Derek grudgingly conceded that it was probably called Teddy.

And later, when the fire died down and they stood to head back inside, Laura turned to Stiles and said, winking, “Are you spending the night?”

Stiles looked to Derek for an answer and was pleasantly surprised when Derek took his hand and threaded their fingers together. The answer was there. “Yeah,” he grinned.

They stood around in the kitchen for a while, chatting. Laura went to bed eventually, muttering something about getting up early, and Stiles turned to look at Derek. “So do you have, like, a second couch for me to sleep on?”

Derek gave him a bemused look. “Laura’s in the guest room.”

“Guest room?” Stiles said indignantly. “You had me sleeping on the couch!”

“I was drunk,” Derek said airily.

“Not too drunk to remember where the blankets were,” Stiles muttered mutinously. “Speaking of which—”

Derek stepped forward, slipping a hand under Stiles’ shirt, his hand warm on Stiles’ skin. “You’re not sleeping on the couch tonight,” he breathed.

“Oh,” Stiles said. _“Oh.”_

Derek grinned lazily. He turned without a word and Stiles followed him, up the stairs and to the end of the hall to the master bedroom. He hadn’t been in Derek’s room before and he had to stop to look around. Laura had obviously tried to work her interior designer magic in here; the walls were a deep, ashy grey and the furniture looked like it had once been arranged nicely, but Derek’s personality had crept in at the edges in the form of haphazardly hung pictures of the kids and a nice end table shoved out of the way to make room for some kind of workout machine.

Stiles looked over at Derek, who was standing by his dresser, and grinned. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Derek glanced around unconcernedly. “I don’t spend a lot of time in here.” He crooked at finger at Stiles. “Come here.”

Stiles sauntered over to him, stopping a foot away. “What do you want?” he asked, a smile curling the corners of his lips.

Derek reached his hands out, catching Stiles by the loops of his jeans, pulling him in close. They stood like that for a long moment, Derek looking down at him with an almost proprietary look on his face. Stiles could feel his cheeks flushing under Derek’s steady gaze and he had to look away eventually. Derek laughed softly, raising a hand to touch Stiles’ cheek.

“Come on,” Derek said quietly, thumb brushing along Stiles’ cheekbone. “Let’s go to bed.”

-

Stiles woke up the next morning with the room still mostly dark from the heavy curtains that covered the windows. He laid still for a while with his eyes half open, feeling vaguely disappointed. Nothing had happened last night, which was partially his fault; after they’d both stripped to their boxers, Stiles had climbed into Derek’s bed with all intention of letting his body be ravaged by Derek Hale, but as soon as his body had hit Derek’s very soft, very comfortable, probably very expensive mattress, he’d started drifting away. Derek had not helped; he kept touching Stiles all over, like he was trying to make up for the five years he’d lost, running his hands all over Stiles’ arms and chest, dragging his nails across his skin. Instead of turning Stiles on, Derek’s touch had relaxed him so completely he fell asleep.

And now here he was, curled on his side in Derek’s extremely comfortable bed with Derek…Derek pressed up against him, so close his chest touched Stiles’ back with every deep inhale of air, one heavy arm draped over his side. Stiles grinned sleepily to himself. Okay. That wasn’t so bad. Behind him, Derek sighed deeply, his arm tightened around Stiles.

“Hey, you awake?” Stiles asked quietly.

“Mm,” Derek groaned. “What time is it?”

Stiles looked over at the nightstand. “It’s past ten.”

“Good.”

“Isn’t the house a little too quiet?”

“Laura’s taking the kids out for the day.” Derek shifted, pressing his face against the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles shivered as Derek’s teeth dragged against his skin, the arm holding him bending, Derek’s fingers pulling across his chest.

“So we’ve got the house all to ourselves?” Stiles asked.

“’S right,” Derek murmured. He moved slowly, nudging a knee between Stiles’ legs and raising it, pressing his thigh against Stiles’ crotch. Stiles hissed between his teeth, his eyes drifting closed. He was already half hard, just from waking up, and Derek was only making him harder. Derek pulled them together, back and stomach pressing tight. Stiles moaned softly. He could feel Derek, already hard and hot against his back. Only the cotton of Derek’s underwear kept them apart.

“I want you, Stiles,” Derek murmured, his hand sliding down Stiles’ stomach and playing with the elastic of his boxers. “Can I have you?”

Stiles shuddered. “Fuck yeah,” he said. _“Please.”_

Derek bit into his shoulder, hard enough for it to hurt, and hooked his thumb in the band of Stiles’ underwear, pulling it down past his hips. He took Stiles’ cock in his hand, wrapping his big fingers around his length, and began to jerk off Stiles with long, steady strokes. Stiles moaned, his back arching and his ass pressing back against Derek’s front. Derek made a rumbling noise low in his chest and thrust his hips back against Stiles, his mouth busy on the back of Stiles’ neck. The multiple points of stimulation were almost too much for Stiles; it was all he could do to keep his hips moving, fucking up into Derek’s hand and grinding back on his hard-on. Derek’s hand moved faster as Stiles’ movements became less coordinated, hips jerking, his fingers digging into the sheets.

“Come on,” Derek murmured into Stiles’ ear. “Come for me.”

Stiles gasped, his feet bracing against Derek’s shins. He came with a muffled shout, back arching in a near impossible curve. Stiles rolled onto his stomach, chest heaving. “Jesus,” he said weakly, turning his head so he could look at Derek. “You—” he began, reaching a hand toward Derek, but Derek pushed his hand away, getting up on his knees and pushing his underwear down. He knelt over Stiles, kneeling on his thighs and Stiles groaned when he felt Derek’s dick sliding between his ass cheeks.

Derek braced himself against the bed, his hands on either side of Stiles’ head and began thrusting against him, his movements quick and desperate to get off. Stiles bit at his cheek, trying to hold back the truly filthy sounds that wanted to burst from his chest. He gripped at Derek’s wrists, pushing himself back against the former fighter, hearing his breathing growing harsher. Derek’s dick, slick with precome, slid against Stiles’ sweaty skin easily and he moaned when Derek leaned forward to bite the back of his neck, their bodies pressed together for a long moment before Derek started moving again, rutting against Stiles frantically.

“Hey,” Stiles gasped into his pillow. “What would you do – _fuck_ – if I told you I jack off to videos of your old fights?”

Derek tossed his head back and groaned, coming with a snap of his hips, decorating Stiles’ back with his cum. “ _Fuck_ , Stiles!”

Stiles grinned into the pillow as Derek dropped back next to him. Derek smacked him across the head lightly. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Stiles turned his head to grin at him. “Couldn’t help it. It was like your body was taunting me.”

“Jesus,” Derek muttered, wriggling around and pushing his boxer-briefs off all the way. “You’re dangerous.”

Stiles turned onto his side, tangling his legs with Derek’s. “Hey, so…a few days ago, you wouldn’t even let me blow you.”

“Mmhmm.” Derek reached out, running his hands through Stiles’ hair. That grounding thing, Stiles thought again. Keeping himself under control.

“What changed?”

“You,” Derek said slowly. “Coming to the hospital with me.”

Stiles lifted his head. “What do you mean? Isn’t that what people do?”

“I don’t know that many who care that much,” Derek replied. “You barely know the kids and you still offered to come. I realized,” he said, his voice lowering, “that I can trust you.”

Stiles stared at Derek, his heart swelling in his chest. He leaned over and they kissed languidly, tongues sliding against each other. Stiles pulled back eventually, his breathing short. “So, is this, like, a thing now?”

“I want it to be,” Derek said, quirking the corner of his mouth. “Do you?”

“Obviously,” Stiles scoffed. “What are you going to tell your kids?”

“Same thing you’re going to tell your dad.”

“Oh, right.” Stiles grinned. “Let’s go drive around and see if you can get pulled over again. He’s going to _love_ you.”

**Author's Note:**

> So there's that! I got sick of this fic about five pages in, but stuck with it and ended it in a hurry so I can move onto some delicious angst that's been festering in my head for about a week. I'm not used to all these _emotions_. There wasn't enough of the kids, but...eh...I'll save 'em for another fic, I suppose.


End file.
